


You Are Not Broken

by ColorInPlatinum



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Asexual Character, F/M, M/M, Multi, Trans Male Character, might turn this into something bigger if it gets enough good feedback, some stuff regarding junkrat's identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-14 08:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7164578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorInPlatinum/pseuds/ColorInPlatinum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>junkrat is trans. and asexual. and sick, in more ways than one. he wants nothing more than to feel normal--but roadhog and a few others remind him he's more normal than most would expect. -abandoned fic. sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Real Men

**Author's Note:**

> so this is going to deal with a lot of my personal headcanons regarding gender and sexual identity of possibly several characters. if this gets enough good feedback, i'll be expanding on it.

Roadhog hates his appearance. Oversized lower canines that protruded over his upper lip. Ugly scars that carve into his flesh, revealing grey-trimmed, red insides and golden incisors. Shocking blue eyes that have aged, one gone grey from a particularly furious Junker girl. White hair he's had since birth, fraying and thinning and falling out every day thanks to the radiation. Even the geometric tattoos along his face have faded, leaving behind grey scribbles. It' why he wears his mask, more to save his hide than his lungs.

Then along comes a rat. A jittery, jumpy, far-too-curious rat, who insists upon seeing Roadhog's face and knowing his real name before they engage in an official partnership. Roadhog declines, but Junkrat keeps pressing.

After about a month of them living and working together, Roadhog begins to notice a few things about Junkrat that strike him as... not odd, per se, but off-kilter. As if it doesn't fit into his being.

Like the way he'll stand with a little too much hip on one side. The way his voice cracks even though he's clearly been long out of puberty's grasp. How thin he is, how dainty and fragile, even though he eats a fair amount when they have it. Part of him tells Roadhog that he should be more concerned with Junkrat's deteriorating posture, the dirty bandages he keeps wrapped around his ribcage so tight that one would think he had a never ending waterfall of blood pouring from it. But Roadhog's never been one for things like that.

But then one night, the kid's curiosity finally pushes him over the edge.

A week or so back, they had reached a compromise. Exchange last names, and Junkrat is allowed to _feel_ Roadhog's face; it always transpired with a thick, meaty hand held tight over Junkrat's eyes. It worked for a while, and Junkrat spent most nights tracing along the crevices in Roadhog's face, over raised skin around his scars. He'd wrap his thin fingers around Roadhog's little tusks before he made the kid stop.

But now Junkrat was begging to see him for real. He wants to know what color _Rutledge's_ eyes are. Wants to know if he has an odd tan line from wearing his mask all the time. Does he have a nose piercing? When Roadhog denies the kid again, Junkrat catches something in the dull, grey eye beneath the tinted lenses of Roadhog's mask.

Without a word, the kid stands and pulls his tattered t-shirt off, and then hesitantly reaches around behind him, fiddling with those ever-present bandages. When they hit the dusty ground, Roadhog almost wants to hit himself in the face.

There stands Junkrat, in all his hunched-over, soot-covered glory. His ribs are horribly bent and noticeable, his arms slowly falling to his sides. Beneath them lay a pair of hideously clean, very small _breasts._

Of course the kid's _trans._ It explained all of those little off-kilter things. The Outback's medical system was shot to hell--he'd never be able to get his hands on Tylenol, let alone hormone treatment.

His thoughts are interrupted; Junkrat is bright red, eyes watery, looking expectant. Roadhog feels guilt, true guilt, hit him in his enormous gut. He's a fucking dick, making the kid stand here like this, having outed himself in the most personal way he could. Instead of prolonging what must be agony for the poor boy, Roadhog reaches around and begins fiddling with the straps on his porcine mask.

Junkrat's tears fall over his eyes, one, two, and then stop. The blush fades, his posture relaxes. It suddenly seems like less of a crime for him to expose himself like this--because he's not alone.

With a grin less deranged than Roadhog thought the boy could muster, Junkrat falls into Roadhog's lap and puts his hands on the elder's face. He's drinking in every scar, every wrinkle, every single tiny feature.

Junkrat doesn't put his shirt back on, nor his bandages; Roadhog won't let him put those back on. Instead, he's stripped the elastic out of them and is sitting by the fire sewing. Junkrat doesn't know just what yet, but he can't stop smiling.

"I guess," Junkrat begins, making Roadhog start at the sudden end to the silence. "I am a real man. No fuckin' girl could get your mask off like that." He seems proud. He seems happy.

Roadhog reminds the kid that he's always been a real man.

"Thanks, mate."


	2. The Perfect Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> junkrat sometimes has difficulty getting dates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the next two weeks or so, my internet data will be gone. chapters will be coming slow and sporadically. sorry about that.

"You're sulking." comes Roadhog's deep voice as he passes the window.

"I am not!" Junkrat protests, sitting straight in his seat at the bay window.

It's not a fancy hotel, but it's nicer than what they're used to. Free breakfast, two beds, a television, and even a balcony. It might have something to do with the fact that they bribed the receptionist, but for now they were just happy to have a hideout.

And despite Junkrat's protests, he is in fact sulking.

He stares out the window with an underbitten pout, tugging anxiously at the elastic of his binder. The thing's covered in pins and stickers, just like his filthy pants, and most people mistake it for a tank top before anything else. But that's not why he's upset. See, when you're an internationally wanted felon with a price of nearly thirty million dollars on your head, people take notice. Sometimes these people are really cute. And sometimes they want to sleep with criminals.

Junkrat's never been comfortable with sex, but damned if he doesn't love the attention it comes with. On nights when a cute girl insists on spending the night with him, he manages to keep his own _secret_ under wraps and keep his hands to himself. The girl goes home lightheaded, filled with adrenaline, and Junkrat manages to keep his conscience fairly clean.

But on nights like last night, he's not so lucky.

It's not the first time someone's gotten his binder off (or before Roadhog came along, his bandages) but half the time, people tell him it's a pro and not a con. He guesses he should take it as a compliment, but it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth; still, it's not something he can't handle. But last night, when that cute guy managed to distract Junkrat long enough to get his binder off, things were different.

Upon seeing his temporary lover's face, Junkrat went straight to making excuses. They're always half-assed: when he eats, all the fat goes to his chest, or it's some kind of radiation symptom. Instead of a proper response, he got laughter. Earlier that day, seeing this cute kid's smile and hearing his laughter would've sent chills down Junkrat's spine and made him feel warm and fuzzy, but right now it's making his gut turn ice cold.

"You're a girl?" comes that dreaded response.

"Wha--I-I--no! No, I'm not!" Junkrat insisted, red-faced and shaking. More laughter, more names, girl girl girl!

It's a blur from then on, but when Junkrat came back to reality, the kid was on the floor, clutching his bleeding nose, and Roadhog stood behind him, looking like the brute was about to stomp his skull in. Junkrat's fist was covered in blood.

"I lost my temper, that's all." Junkrat says, trying desperately to get his mind off the night before.

"You're lucky I wasn't there first." Roadhog retorts.

There's silence between the two for a minute, save for the spastic bursts of audio from the TV as Roadhog absently flips through the channels. Finally, Roadhog speaks up.

"I got our next job."

* * *

Hostage and robbery has never tasted this sweet.

Junkrat's almost lightheaded as he watches the scene unfold before him: Roadhog, pinning a choking doctor to the white wall of the operating room and screaming in his face. Terrified nurses shakiy rushing about the room and getting things ready. The doors barred with chains and rigged with explosives, the detonator clutched in Junkrat's hand.

Briefly, he thinks back to Roadhog's words before the job even began.

"Sick and tired of watchin' this shit." he'd mumbled, slamming himself into the glass doors of the hospital. "We'll keep lookin' until someone does it for us. I ain't gonna risk fuckin' it up myself."

Of course, wave enough dynamite in front of someone, they'll perform any surgery you ask.

Including top surgery.

Roadhog takes the detonator from Junkrat as the shaky nurses escort him into a separate room to get him prepared. He never thought he'd be so excited to get cut open.

Though Junkrat is very quickly put under, he dreams the situation unfolding around him. He can see Roadhog leering over the doctor, snarling with every squirt of blood that seemed to be too much. He can hear the beeping of the bombs on the door (or is that just the heart monitor slipping in?) and the hushed whispers of "are we getting out of this alive?"

He supposes that Roadhog wanted to get Junkrat back to hiding as soon as possible though, because when he finally wakes up, he's in their cramped warehouse hideout. He's sore, but before he can complain, Junkrat sees the grime-covered bottle of painkillers by his threadbare cot and downs a few. As the sleep leaves his eyes, he realizes that his prosthetic is laying at the foot of his temporary bed, right next to Roadhog.

"Well?" comes his booming voice. "What do you think?"

It's only then that Junkrat remembers what they just did. Giddy, he scrambles up on his good foot, clinging to the wall. He jumps and hobbles his way over to the messy mirror that Roadhog must have stolen from a nearby dump, unable to wipe the smile off his face.

The scars are fresh, of course, still a bit red, irritated from his own personal layer of dirt and the filth from the room around them, but he'd still be smiling if the things were gushing blood. He runs his free hand over his chest, laughing when he feels nothing but flat skin.

"Are you gonna answer?" Roadhog asks.

Junkrat nods, still grinning. "Yeah, yeah, no worries." he says. "I think... that was the best date I have ever been on."


	3. Ace of Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> junkrat finds out what his sexuality is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> junkrat/symmetra in this one

Joining up with Overwatch was a great idea. Awesome pay, less cops, better living conditions, and endless supply of materials for explosives, and of course--some very cute people.

The cute person Junkrat had recently become infatuated with was Symmetra, though she told him to call her Satya. Technically, they've been dating for several months now. It's the most steady relationship Junkrat's ever had, if you don't count Roadhog. She's kind, loving, understanding, but at the same time, she balances him out. They're total opposites: water and oil, fire and ice, chaos and order. They're perfect for each other.

They sleep together most nights, curled beneath the sheets with their prostheses laid on the floor by the bed and Roadhog in the bigger one across the room. He told her shortly after their relationship began to drift away from professional that he's trans, and she simply told him that she didn't care. After a bit of prying, Junkrat had her elaborate: Vishkar wants order, so why would they or their  followers disapprove of a person creating order within themselves?

Maybe they aren't so bad after all.

But tonight is different, and in a way special. After a short conversation regarding boundaries and preferences, they decided to sleep together. Really sleep together. Though Junkrat has dismissed the idea before, for some reason it feels better with her. Maybe he's just getting crazier.

It's a gentle pace when it begins (Roadhog is nice enough to have left them alone for the night) with Junkrat's shaky hands undoing the clasps of her turquoise gown and removing the visor from her face. Beneath her uniform and armor, Satya's dressed in white lace, contrasting beautifully with her dark skin. For a minute, Junkrat wishes he'd spent more time washing up earlier that night.

She gets him out of his grungy boot and his stained shorts, onto the bed in nothing but stark white boxers that Mercy must have given him to change into during his last bad trip to her office.

Sweet kisses pass, hands running through hair, and Junkrat can feel the cool feeling of her metal fingers trailing down past his hips--and he hesitates.

In that half a second of hesitation, a million thoughts run through his head, ranging from scolds to jokes to reassurances. Satya's so observant that she draws her hand back upon noticing Junkrat's change in pace and sits up on his legs.

"Are you alright?" she asks. "Is this--your first time?"

Junkrat cackles. "Oh, sheila. I like you, yeah, but it ain't me first." Most would find the statement offensive, but after spending so much time with Junkrat alone, one realizes that it's just how he tends to show affection.

"Then what is it?" Satya presses, concern and confusion written across her beautiful features.

"I--I dunno." Junkrat finally admits. He sits up, gently pushing Satya off his thighs and onto the soot-stained sheets. They're both still red-faced, both no doubt feeling the lingering tingle of short-lived arousal, but neither of them seem like they're worried about the sex for the time being.

"I jus'... never really got into sex?" Junkrat says, almost asking himself. "I mean I slept with tons o' people. Boys, girls, in between, it just... felt weird. But--but then I met you!" He sounds like he's trying to reassure her. "I figured I was one o' those weird blokes, y'know? Don't like sex unless it's with your one n' only? But... it still feels... not wrong but..."

Junkrat ends up trailing off, rubbing the back of his neck as if that would help him find the words he's looking for. Instead of getting offended or storming out, Satya laughs. It makes Junkrat straighten and frown.

"Oi! Don't laugh at me!"

She continues, trying to cover her mouth as she attempts to suppress the laughter. When it passes, she smiles reassuringly. "Junkrat, it's not strange," Satya says, pulling the sheets around her shoulders. "You're asexual. That's all."

Now okay--he's not got the longest fuse in the bunch, but he's no idiot either. "Don't--don't that mean you can cut off your arm to make a baby?" he asks, looking both confused and almost offended. It sends Satya into another giggling fit.

"Junkrat, no!" she insists. "It means you don't like sex. It's perfectly normal, just as normal as someone being a redhead." she explains, smiling.

"Don't like sex?" Made some sense. "Okay, love, I get what you're sayin' but I have sex all the time. Well, not since we got together, but--and also!" He even adds a pointed finger. "I jack it almost every night. I like doin' that. An' you look real fuckin' nice in your undies, mate."

"That's normal too, Junkrat," Satya says, taking his last comment as the cue to drop the sheets from her shoulders. "A lot of asexual people like to masturbate, or like the idea of sex. I once had a partner who enjoyed pleasuring her lover but not receiving it in turn. Everyone has different preferences."

Junkrat seems to sit in silence for a moment, processing the information just given to him. He always thought he was just batty for not enjoying the sex he'd had in the past. Even Roadhog seemed confused when he admitted to not enjoying the hot piece of ass he'd had the night before. The puzzle pieces just... fell together.

"So... I'm normal." he finally says.

Satya wants to say 'not exactly, you're a perpetually burning man with an obsession with explosives' but decides that's beside the point and nods instead.

"So that means that maybe, possibly, I could convince ya t' drop those lacy undies an' just cuddle?"

She nods again.

"Then let's fuckin' do it mate!"


	4. How Crazy Can A Crazed Man Get?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> symmettra has learned to pick up on little ticks here and there in other people. so when she notices a whole nest of ticks within junkrat, she gets curious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has a lot of content dealing with mental health. i did as much research as i could even before i wrote this, but if i missed something or got something wrong, please tell me.
> 
> that being said, if you just wanna comment "i don't think junkrat has x disorder" then whoops you came to the wrong fic

Junkrat has habits.

Learned ones, born ones, just like anyone, but sometimes the habits seem a little too odd or a little too intense.

He's a pyromaniac, sure, but most pyromaniacs don't spends hours jabbering on about the chemicals and elements in different bombs. Most don't insist on the difference between frag grenades and and the round cherries he fires from hi launcher. He insists, "oh sure, it's called a frag launcher but that sounded way cooler than cherry picker!"

It's no secret that he and Roadhog have experienced hell; they come from the Outback, the place is as close to hell on earth as any mortal could imagine. But no matter the trauma, even Doctor Ziegler can't figure out why Junkrat ends up screaming and crying in his room when Roadhog disappears without notice, when a trip to the supermarket runs over an hour. Most don't panic over a missing screw from a machine, as if the lost thing would cause the destruction of the whole world.

Satya, coming from a company insistent on order, has personally known and helped to treat transgender agents and citizens for years, but never once has she seen dysphoria turn this bad. She, Roadhog, even Junkrat's simple acquaintances have witnessed him tugging out his hair, clawing at his chest and his abdomen, as if he could peel off the skin and find what he wants to be there, what he knows _should_ be there would be waiting for him.

He runs from rooms when things get tense, his chaos is ordered in such a ways that it's almost obsessive, and Roadhog can testify to Junkrat professing both his love and his undying hatred for the man in the same hour sometimes.

Habits, like anyone else. He chews his nails (and peels the skin off too) and scratches that one spot on his back (so hard that it sometimes breaks the skin) and peels the orange paint from his prosthetic (so bad he has to repaint the spot almost every night).

Habits.

But Satya has her suspicions.

"Therapist?" comes Junkrat's accusatory tone. "What the fuck do I need a therapist for?"

"Everyone can benefit from a therapist, Junkrat." Satya tells him. "I think you might even enjoy sitting down and talking to one."

"You sayin' I'm off my nut?" he asks. "That's last year's new, luv." he adds, cackling to himself.

Satya puts an hand on his shoulder, those bright eyes begging in a ways Junkrat knows he can't refuse. "Please? I think it would help."

So he goes. This therapist is a Vishkar-branded suit with a balding head and a smile with too-straight teeth--but oddly enough, the guy's nice. He tells Junkrat that he wishes they could have stopped the destruction of the Outback. He compliments the traffic cone orange limbs.

Junkrat talks. The guy has question after question, everything from what he ate this morning to what he did when Roadhog left home.

Junkrat leaves with a slip of paper and wide-eyed expression. Roadhog is almost worried when Junkrat remains silent the entire walk back to their room, but when the door shuts, the kid says something Roadhog almost doesn't understand.

"I'm okay."

It's not a reassurance; he means it as a state of being. The kid grins and shoves the paper in Roadhog's face.

"Roadie! Roadie, you see that?! Look, look, I'm not--I'm not crazy!" he cries. Junkrat lets Roadhog take the paper to examine on his own while he continues to ramble. "Roadie look at it! I'm not crazy, I'm _autistic_! There's a fuckin' word for it! And--and you know like--you know my nightmares, an' 'ow I gotta like... scratch me nubs sometimes? Bloke called it _post-traumatic stress disorder._ And--and--!"

The kid doesn't stop rambling, and Roadhog hasn't seen him this happy in years. He reads over the paper; the kid's been professionally diagnosed, and even with all his years of living and learning, Roadhog can't understand half of what's on the paper. But he sees four lines of big words: mild autism, borderline personality disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, and signs of developing obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Roadhog doesn't understand half of it.

But he'll be damned if he stops the kid from being this happy. He'll be damned if he doesn't feel his heart jump when he sees how excited Junkrat gets when he tells one of his other friends "I'm not _crazy_ , it's called _borderline personality disorder_ " like the words are fucking candy on his tongue. He'll be damned if he doesn't beam every time Winston or Lúcio or Tracer jumps in when someone calls him crazy.

And even if Roadhog doesn't believe in a god, he'll be damned if he doesn't thank the heavens for such a small thing to make Junkrat feel so much better about himself.


End file.
